Ghostbusters: Ghostbusting 102: Demon Days
by CJ Bacon
Summary: A sixteen year old Ray Stantz is about to meet two men who would change his life forever. Unofficial sequel to Ghostbusting 101: Meeting of the Minds. PART 1 Up


Ghostbusting 102: Demon Days

(a sequel to "Ghostbusting 101")

By C.J. Bacon

Copyright Notices: Ghostbusters is strictly copyrighted SONY/COLUMBIA PICTURES. That's obvious. The characters of Peter Venkman, Ray Stantz, Egon Spengler, and Dean Yeager are created by Dan Aykroyd and Harold Ramis and owned by Columbia. Columbia University is owned...by New York. Now, that that's out of the way, fanfiction copyright: Scott Jackson is a character created by Andy "SpecterHarness" Harness of the East Tennessee Ghostbusters in the tale "**Ghostbusting 101** (aka "Meeting of the Minds")" and is thus his creation, refined and re-tooled by fanfic gurus Fritz "Veedramon" Baugh, Benjamin "Kingpin" King, and Iain "Flying Officer" Bennett.

**FALL 1976**

The sixteen-year old stared out of the cab driver's window.

_New York. The City_, he thought complacently, his head resting upon the palm of his right hand as he held himself by his shoulder on the armrest. The cab driver, a man of noticeable Irish descent, stared at the young man as he rounded the corner of West 46th, where the trade ships were docked. He noticed the thick shock of auburn hair that stood up somehwat on his rather chubby face. He wasn't fat, but rather solidly built; mayabe his father was like that. The young man's eyes were hazel-colored. He saw that these stared out at nothing for some time, as if the man behind them was slowly fading away.

His meter ticked off another two dollars. The sum total was now at $5.75.

He'd picked the kid up from Grand Central Station. He was just standing there, not even hailing a cab. Something inclined him to offer the kid a ride. He turned towards him with those haunting hazel eyes and nodded slowly, the expression on his face...it was not one of those "_I hate everyone and everything around me_" types that you saw with a lot of the teenagers today. This one was of self-loathing.

Another two dollars. Utter silence.

"So kid", the driver said innocently enough, trying to start a conversation. They were still a good ways from their destination, and being stuck in rush hour traffic wasn't going to help matters much either. "This your first time in the city?"

The young man looked at the driver face to face this time. _Yep_, the driver thought, _this kid was probably a plumpy as a boy_. There was pure innoncence in his face, one that defeated the sadness in his eyes. He looked as though he wanted someone to help him.

"No." The young man's voice was slightly high and shrilly, as if he had skipped a part of puberty. It sort of lacked emotion. No matter, at least the weird silence in the air was gone.

"I used to come here on the weekends with my father and brother."

"Really now, eh?" the driver said, putting on an air of surprise. "Where ya from?"

"I was born in the Bronx, but my parents moved to Morrisville when I was nine. The house I was born in is still there, though. Got an uncle who lives somewhere around here. He has a joke shop, but we don't speak much either."

"Small town?"

"So small we still haven't got a mini-mall."

The driver laughed. "Yeah, I know how that is. My old man got off the boat in '27 from Dublin when he was thirteen. He fell in love with America the moment he laid eyes on the Statue and believes in this country more now. It gave him a job, kept him and us crumb-munchers alive, and my mother, God rest her soul, alive for many years. Course, he was always cursing the lack of respect he got for being an Irishman. We lived in Patterson, which ain't a bad place to raise a kid, you know? Real nice in the winter time. The parades there are something everybody should see."

"My mom was Scottish", the young man said, adjusting himself in his seat. The inital hollowness in his voice was gone now, taken over by, what he thought, what sounded like an eleven year old kid explaining to his buddies his idea to build a lemonade stand for the summer. "Came over here, I think in the late Forties. I can't remember much. I know I still have family over there. An uncle who owns his very own castle..."

"Wow." The driver was no longer pretending to be interested. The kid actually had something worth listening to. "You ever been?"

"No. Never have, but we write almost all the time. I sort of wish I did." The young man suddenly looked down.

"Why? Something happen at home?"

The young man looked back up, a mournful look on his face. "Something", he said and left it at that as he went back to staring out the window. He was now looking at a Hoover vaccum truck. Rather than try and continue on the conversation, the driver turned on the radio. The Coasters 'Under the Boardwalk' was blasting.

The driver lit a cigarette as the traffic ebbed and he continued on their journey.

Raymond Francis Stantz gently tapped his fingers against the window when Johnny Moore popped up with his falsetto. This was what his first impression of life after high school was like: empty, with nobody to care if he even succeded or tried.

"Whoa."

That was all Ray could say when the driver arrived at the front steps of Columbia University. The old-fashioned architecture struck him immediatly at first, recognizing its design as neo-Gothic, part of the big Reformation of the early Eighteenth century. He took in the expansive, rolling green of the campus as he saw students scuttling about like mice: some were hooking up with old friends from high school (proudly displaying their school colors); some were laughing out loud, regaling the newcomers with whatever they did over the summer break. And still others, like Ray himself, were new to the game, nervous, slightly scared, and above all, naive to the whole thing.

He glanced up at the large belltower. He wondered if Quasimodo had retired up there.

What constituted as Ray's belongings didn't amount to much: two suitcases (both filled with clothes he knew he would be re-wearing until the end of Christmas), a box containing some "essential" school supplies (mostly a collection of various medical forms and medicines insisted upon by his aunt, Lois), another small box with some of his 9mm Walt Fleischman cartoons (complete with projector), and a backpack, which Ray was already wearing.

His eyes fell upon the school's motto, spoken so many years ago but never forgotten: _"The pursuit of knowledge is the greatest rewarad of all."_

"Well kid", the cab driver said shutting his trunk. "That's it. That'll be $21.50."

"I say the meter should have stopped when we got caught in that 5 o'clock traffic", Ray said reaching into pocket. The driver shrugged.

"Yeah, but what can ya do?" Before he turned towards the driver's seat of his car, he looked back at the young freshman. He shook his head.

He could feel that the kid would be eaten alive before the end of the month, but said "Good luck to ya squirt!" as he pulled off. Ray waved back to him and grinned a little, nervously as he affixed himself a dolly from the front steps and placed his suitcases and boxes onto it. He needed to find his dorm. A notice on one of the billboards indicated that all freshmen were supposed to report to the school's administrations offices for the number and key to their dorms.

The Berser at the front desk looked like someone from a Chuck Jones cartoon: he had a high forehead, with a unibrow crawling across it like a caterpillar. His eyes were unusually beady, and Ray could tell it probably wasn't from studying. He'd seen Favish get wasted enough back home to know that much, even if he never indulged in the habits himself. At sixteen, there isn't a whole lot you can do.

He stood behind a tall, burly freshman, with the build of a linebacker. Ray thought he probably cut a comical site, a kid barely standing above 5'8 and 169 pounds compared to this 6'5, 250 pounder of a student.

"NEXT!" the Berser shouted. Ray approached the desk, hesistating. "You lost kid?" the Berser asked.

"No."

"You looking for your brother?"

"No."

"Sister?"

"No."

"Then what the hell are you doing here?"

"I need my key and where my dorm is, please." The Berser's eyes widened.

"You're a student here kid?"

_What's with all the "kid" jazz?_ Ray thought in his head. "Yeah. Last name's Stantz, first is Raymond."

The Berser thumbed through his records, eyeing Ray a little suspiciously. Finally, he said:

"Here it is: STANTZ, Room 16. Johnson Hall. You're roomies with the Draverhaven spook. NEXT!"

"The what?" Ray said as he was handed his key.

"I said, NEXT!" the Berser repeated, this time scowling at Ray. Ray took this as a cue to beat it at once.

The moment Ray walked up to Johnson Hall, he found a grafitti sign that said _This buidling is Ironic_, an English major perhaps feeling the stresses of the summer term upon him relieving himself. Walking inside, he found that the dormitory resembled nothing short of a low-income apartment building, with both hairline and structural cracks appearing in the walls. He heard, upstairs, the sound of a toilet being flushed and swore that he saw water running down the wall.

"I should have stayed in Morrisville", he muttered under his breath, as, realizing that his room was in the upstairs quandrant, wheeled the dolly carefully upstairs, holding onto the boxes with his hand, getting bumped several times by students coming down the stairs ("Watch it froshie!" "Get out of the way kid!") and up the stairs. He breathed a sigh of relief when he approached the hall where he would be spending the next four years of his life.

He looked around. The hall was completely save for a young man slumped with his head bowed against the wall next to one of the room doors. He walked past the student, noting that the door he was slumped next to was Room 13.

Ray stopped and stared at the whiteboard fastened to the door. He'd heard stories from many students (some attending NYU) about these boards, and how dormmates often write messages to one another.

This one in particular caught his attention almost immediatly. It read, in big, bright red letters:

**_Venkman Burn In HELL!_**

With the words 'hell' heavily emphasized, followed by several exclamation marks. He thought that whoever this "Venkman" was, he must have been some kind of badass the invoke a curse like that. Probably was some kind of teacher's pet.

Three doors down, and on the left, Ray came upon his room, number 16. As he inserted the key into the doorknob, he noticed a weird smell emenating from within. It reminded him of the times when he'd caused a meltdown in his room back home from mixing Boron and Krypton together. The results were hilarious to Ray, but to his mother and father, to fumigate the house every month became tiresome and Ray swore, as an Eagle Scout, that he would never dabble in chemicals until he was safely out of the house, or there would be no house to return to.

_Funny how that actually turned out_.

In the midst of his remeniscing, Ray did not hear the door being unlocked. He did not hear it being opened.

"Can I help you?"

Ray jumped a little bit as he stared into his own reflected image in the young man's glasses. There was an annoyed look in the eyes that stared back through the glasses that were fixated on Ray.

"Hi, I'm Raymond Stantz", he said, extending his hand out. The young man with the glasses looked gloomily at him and shook it. There was no enthusiasm in his handshake at all, Ray noticed.

"Um, right then. I'm your new roommate!" He put on a bright smile.

"And...?"

Ray twitched a little. "And...can I come in?"

"You live here now, so it's moot to even ask that." Glasses turned around and went back into the room, pushing the door wide. The young man with the glasses was slightly shorter than Ray was, and a heck of a lot more skinnier. He had a pale complexion, which, along with a beak-like nose and his horn-rimmed glasses, made for a rather vaudevillian appearance. His dirty blonde hair sat flat on his head. The t-shirt he wore was white. Written on the front of the shirt in black words were: _God is in his heaven now and all is right with the world_. Ray wondered if this bird was some kind of religious nut.

Stepping inside, Ray was immeidatley taken aback.

There was little light inside the room; the drapes were closed, and (if there was one) the lamp had been unplugged. There were several, dimly lit wax candles scattered across whatever flat surface could sustain them.

"Watch your step", the boy with the glasses said, his back turned towards his bureau. Ray stopped in his tracks.

"You'll mess up a very important experiment. Your bed's on the other side, right beside the pentagram. Be careful."

Ray looked down at his feet. Sure enough, there was a large white circle, with an upside down triangle in the middle. At the points where the triangle were touching, were several odd symbols.

"Step between the runes", Glasses said. Ray was disliking this kid more and more, and had finally decided enough was enough.

"Listen", Ray said, trying to be calm, putting the dolly in the middle of the floor. He slung his backpack onto the bed. "I understand if you're doing something really important for class, but this isn't the way to start off being roomies." The kid with the glasses looked at Ray with blank eyes, as if he was having trouble compreheding.

He sighed. "Alright, sorry if I'm being a little harsh. I've had a rough day so far and..." His eyes suddenly fell to the runic design pattern in the pentagram. "Is that...are those..._Atlantean_?"

The kid with the glasses cracked a smile. "Polynesian actually", he retorted dryly. "Bear in mind many scholars surmise that Atlantis was probably in the same region as Polynesia, the ancient druids that inhabited the island believed that by painting these runes upon their Transmutation Circles, they could open doors to the astral plane, and, possibly, contact the spirit world."

Ray scratched the top of his head in a manner remeniscent of Stan Laurel. "You mean..._talk_ to ghosts?"

"In layman's terms, yes. Now, how did you recognize those runes?" Ray grinned.

"Captain Steel battled Cobra Kadabra back in _Captain Steel Adventures_ #58. Kadabra resurrected Cap's old girlfriend as a demon to use against him, you know, mess with his feelings."

"Cap pulls himself together in time to make the painful decesion and kills her again", the kid intoned, his head bowed a little bit as he made some notations on a peice of Steno note paper. "Then he goes after Kadabra and puts him in prison in issue 59."

"Yeah", Ray replied, casting an eyebrow at the kid. "How'd you know all that?"

"Len Wolfman's probably the only comic book writer who does actual scientific research for his stories", the boy said. "That Jim Shooter guy gets it all wrong when he's writing the Legion."

Ray's eyes widened. _He reads Adventure Comics too!_

"Quick!" Ray said suddenly, startling his new roommate. "In what issue does Nemesis Kid join up with with the Legion?"

The boy wasted no time in his reply. "_Adventure #346_", he said, going back to making his notes. "Same one as Ferro Lad and the Karate Kid."

Ray's mouth hung open. He'd never read that issue, but he'd heard a lot about it. He didn't know that Ferro Lad had appeared in that same issue as had his favorite Legionairre.

There was an uneasy silence between the two for several beats. A nearby clock counted the seconds between them.

"Forgive me my lack of manners", the kid said in a voice imitating Christopher Lee's Dracula. "I was so caught up in my experiment that I did not bother to introduce myself." He stuck his right hand out.

"Let's do this properly: My name's Michael. Michael Draverhaven."

Ray shook the hand. "Ray Stantz. So, now that we know a little bit about each other, just what were you trying to do here?"

Michael pointed to the circle. "There are at least eight others in this room", he said. "There's an old one underneath your bed there, from when I first arrived here. As I said, I'm trying to contact spirits. I've always believed that they have much more power to tell our past, our present, and our future better than we could ever imagine."

"Yeah, but you would get the same results from a five cent fortune teller", Ray said.

"Not necessarily", Michael replied. "You see, the Polynesians believed that if you want to badly enough, you can contact those that were close to you that have departed this earth. Comfort food, we wold call it today. They would offer predicitions for the farmers for the winter, sometimes predict the lifelines of the family. Most of the time, they would just chat with their loved ones."

Michael stopped as he eyed Ray's backpack. When he had slung it down, it had opened up, spilling a couple of his textbooks onto the covers. Putting down his notepad, he strolled over to Ray's bed and picking one of the books up.

"I see we both have a mutual interest in the occult", he intoned, looking at the title: _Occult Sciences_. "I'm also going to venture to guess you're taking Parapsychology and Psychology as well?"

"You'd be right", Ray said, showing Michael his books. "Computer Science and Biology are the other two I'm taking this semester."

"Kind of overloading it for a freshman, aren't you?" Michael asked. "Most are usually satisfied with taking the basics, getting back to their dorms, and getting drunk."

"If I hadn't overloaded myself in high school, I wouldn't be here now", Ray said. "I graduated at least two years ahead of class and got a scholarship to come here."

"Interesting", Michael said stroking his chin. "Any reason why you want to take up paranormal research though?"

Ray hesitated for a moment. "Just seemed like an interesting subject, you know? Easy 'A' and all that." Ray laughed, giving the impression that he was one of the slackers that took a subject so as not to stress their brains. But he could tell Michael knew he was lying. There was a reason, but Ray didn't feel quite ready to reveal it to anyone.

Michael grinned and looked at Ray deeply, as if probing for the truth. "It is. Even if you don't decide to stick with it as a major, you'll probably find out some things that you never knew before concerning the spirit world." He laughed a deep haughty laugh that sort of freaked Ray out.

He had a feeling in his gut that this semester would prove to be interesting.

That night, Ray sat up in his bed with a start. Remembering where he was, he turned towards his alarm clock. It was 4:15 a.m., the middle of the night, an ungodly hour to even be awake. He looked at his new roommate, Michael's bed. He was still sound asleep.

He had been awakened by, what he perceived, the sound of someone trying to break into their room. Ray brushed it off at first until he heard it again, this time quite plainly. The handle jiggled violently, followed by someone pounding against the door.

"Yo man..." the voice on the other side said. "Opensh upsh. 'sSS me."

Ray went over to Michael's bed and shook his shoulder.

"Mike, wake up!" he said softly. Michael grunted.

"Nnnn? What is it?" Draverhaven said groggily as he struggled to find his glasses. After fumbling around for a little bit, he turned on his bedside lamp and found them.

"I think someone's trying to break in!" Ray said, looking back at the door. The violent pounding continued in the same syntax as the handle.

"Schtop messin' around Spengs", the voice contiued, pounding listlessly on the door. Michael stared.

"I see now", he said. "He could be that prowler that everyone's been put on alert about."

"Prowler?" Ray asked.

"Some guy was seen two weeks breaking into the girl's dormitory. He apparently didn't get far, as one of the ladie's alerted the guard and he was chased off campus by a one-way escort of ten uniformed policemen."

Ray looked back at the door and back at Michael. He didn't know what compelled him to what he was about to do, but he knew he had to think of something.

"Mike, you go over to the door. Put your hand on the handle and when I say 'Go!', I want you to open that door."

"Come again?"

"I've got a plan." Ray unplugged Draverhaven's lamp and, walking towards the other side of the door, held it high over his head.

"Okay, you ready?"

"I still don't fully comprehend the magnitude of this plan", Michael said, "but I'm ready."

"Okay. 1...2...3..._GO!_"

Draverhaven opened the door slowly and stood back. A slim figure walked through. "Damn", he said. "Y'rr bein' real prickery tonight th'n usual. Jus' 'cause ah fuhgut ma keys, you..."

He didn't finish his sentence, as the last thing the figure saw were stars, followed by the sound of a cannon going off in the back of his head. The figure fell flat on his face onto the carpet.

Ray stood over the unconcious individual, proud of his work. "We got em!" he said proudly, turning on his own bedside lamp to get a good look at the individual.

The figure had brown hair, almost the same color as the carpet, that reached down to his neck. He was dressed in a puce t-shirt with blue jeans and brown sneakers. Ray reached over and turned him over, so that they could see his face.

"Oh shit", Michael drawled.

"What?"

"I know who this is."

Ray looked at Draverhaven strangely. "You do?"

"Yes", Michael drawled still, bending down closer to get a better look at the unconcious man on the ground. "You're still new, so of course you won't know him. _Yet_."

"Who is he?"

"Something Venkman. 'Slim' I think they call him over at Tri Kuppa Bru." Ray looked at Draverhaven with a shocked expression on his face. He remembered the name drawn on the whiteboard on Room 13. Looking at the man now, he couldn't possibly wonder why someone would want him to "burn in hell".

Venkman looked a little taller than Ray and Michael, probably around six foot even. He had a soft expression, taking after his mother's side no doubt. His hair short in the front, with a wavy fringe that was all the rage around many other college campuses.

"Funny", Michael said scratching his head. "You would think that getting knocked around so much for the Cavaliers that he'd take a shot to the head with ease."

"The Cavaliers?" Ray asked.

"Our school's football team. Slim here is the lead running back."

_Oh god_, Ray thought. Not only had he knocked out a fellow student and dormmate, but also the star player on the squad. No less than twenty-four hours after he'd arrived he was already in more hot water than he ever wanted to.

While Ray was mulling over these thoughts in his head, Michael spoke again.

"We should probably get him to the Med Labs at Weaver Hall", he said. "They have a round the clock doctor there always."

"Good idea", Ray said putting on some pants and grabbing a jacket. Draverhaven followed suit, though he had little to change, having gone to bed wearing his clothes for that morning's lecture. Hoisting the unconcious Venkman up to his feet, the two grabbed both of his arms and dragged the man down the stairs.

"For being a football star, he's pretty light", Ray acknowledged.

"That's why they call him Slim", Draverhaven said.

The campus Medical Labs were not far from Johnson Hall. Situated on a hill that overlooked a fountain in the middle of the ground in front of it, Weaver Hall was one of the oldest buildings at Columbia University. Ray stood for a moment taking in all this grandeur. Draverhaven looked at him and grinned.

"Funny how we'll be coming back here in a couple hours for class", he said. _Joy. I'm spending time I could have spent finishing up on the Porter Hole, and I'm dragging this guy's drunk ass up here. I was born under a bad sign, I just know it_.

As Draverhaven said, Weaver Hall was wide open. The light illuminated from it was similar to that of a hospital corridor. A receptionist was situated at the front doors at a large oak desk.

"Can I help you?" she intoned in a high-pitched nasal voice. Ray did all the talking. He saw her looking at Venkman.

"Um, yeah", he said, trying to play the situation off. "Our friend here drank a little too much Schlitz at...um..." He turned towards Draverhaven. "Where was that at again?"

"Benny's" Draverhaven said in a matter-of-fact tone. Deep down, Ray wondered if the receptionist was buying this. Just one look at the both of them told her that: A) Ray was too young to drink and B) Draverhaven didn't look the type to even take one drop. But, Michael had known the proper bar, so that lent a little bit of credibility.

"Yeah, that's it", Ray said snapping his fingers. "Anyway, he had one too many and bumped his head getting into his car. You know how that is."

"No, I don't", the receptionist replied.

"Oh. Well, can you call somebody?"

The receptionist looked at the trio for a few seconds before turning to her switchboard. Punching a few digits, she dialed a number. "Call for you Dr. Spengler. Another 450."

Ray looked over to Draverhaven. "_What's a 450?_" he mouthed wordlessly. Draverhaven shrugged.

A tall figure in a white lab coat and red-framed glasses descened down the hallway. His haircut, Ray saw, was beyond description, but what surprised Ray the most was how young he looked. The doctor could not have been no more than about a year and half older than Ray himself, and yet here he was. He'd only seen doctors this young in the Dr. Crowley series, though these never lasted beyond the end of the movie.

He stopped in front of the trio, his eyes falling directly on the Venkman boy. There was a look of intense loathing, disapproval, and (Ray noticed) humor in his soulful blue eyes.

"Fifth time this week", the receptionist said, popping gum. The doctor heaved a heavy sigh. He looked at Ray and Michael, acknowledging them for the first time.

"Hey", Ray said, re-arranging his grip on Venkman. "As we were telling the receptionist here, our friend had one Schlitz too many and bumped his head getting into his car."

"I'll believe it", the doctor said. Ray couldn't tell whether or not he was joking or being serious. "My name is Dr. Egon Spengler. I'm the evening physician."

"Ray Stantz", Ray said.

"Michael", Draverhaven followed.

"Good evening. Now", Dr. Spengler said turning towards Venkman. Pulling out a pocket flashlight, he examined the unconcious boy, checking first for a pupilary response. Checking positive, the Doctor looked at Venkman's skull, finding the large bump. "How did you say he bumped his head again?"

Collecting his thoughts, Ray explained again, although he switched details around and talked a little too fast. He knew that even this Doctor wasn't buying his story.

"_Nnngh_", Venkman muttered. "_...muffins..._" Putting the flashlight back in his coat pocket, Dr. Spengler looked back at the two men.

"He's going to be fine", he said drolly. "A small blow to the head, nothing serious. He's going to be out for, what I estimate, a few hours." Turning to Venkman, Ray could almost swear he saw the man flash a small grin before it quickly disappeared.

"He'll most likely be late for first class", he said, "but I'll alert Professor Andrews as to his whereabouts."

"Andrews?" Ray said. "Isn't he the parapsych professor?" Dr. Spengler nodded.

"He is." Spengler looked at his watch. "I'd advise the two of you to go back to your rooms and rest. The Professor does not have tolerence for neither tardy students, nor", he looked back at Venkman, "slackers. Good day to the both of you." Relieving the two boys of their weight (i.e. Venkman) he bowed to them as he helped the boy to a nearby examining room.

Egon Spengler was younger than most of the graduates he worked with in Weaver Hall, a fact that he was ruefully reminded of every day. Although he had arrived at Columbia as much a freshmen as the two who brought his drunken roommate to him, he was already more than halfway towards achieving his degrees. He was among a sole few who graduated from the college relatively earlier than expected.

He reminded himself of this fact as he placed Peter Venkman on the small, near-wretched cot in the first of five examining rooms at Weaver Hall. He sighed as he thought that being the "big brain" as Peter put it so often, that he would be afforded more pleasent accomodations. Medicine was not his "thing", so to speak, and remembered Peter asking him why did he take the job in the first place.

"The bargain that Dean Yeager has promised me is that I will also double as a researcher for the college", Egon had said. He should have known first hand that Yeager would go back on his word. His nephew, Scott, had never forgiven the trio of he, Venkman, and mutual friend Ryan Harness for making fools of not only Scott, but also the Dean: Despite the fact that Ryan took the blame for a laboratory accident that cost the campus two of its facilities, Yeager had always suspected that Peter and Egon knew more than they let on, and was forever wanting to expell them and put them in jail. Especially Venkman. The end result was that if he couldn't prove that the two did it, he'd crush their careers. Egon had anticipated this, but continued on.

Peter snorted while Egon filled out the report. That was a sign that he was at least asleep instead of unconcious. _The universe just waits for me to get cocky_, he thought. Although the matter was long out of his hands by the time Peter burst through Egon's dorm three falls ago, he'd really never regretted living with the man much after a few days. Maybe he was softening up, he considered. Peter was not the type of person his father would have wanted his genius son associating with, regardless if that person had _some_ potential. Peter had it, of that much Egon was sure; but Peter much preferred downplaying whatever mental faculties he had in favor of being a clever anachronism.

Sighing heavily, Egon put the report aside. Since Peter wasn't dead and he suffered no permanent injuries, he found no need to finish it right away. Instead, going over to a bookshelf, he pulled out a worn copy of _Tobin's Spirit Guide_. Whenever Peter woke up, he was going to suggest a little trip out to Coney Island for the weekend, where, from the description, a Class III focused, free-floating vapor was abounding near a roller-coaster. Affording himself a small chuckle, Egon read on. He was doing this more to help Peter's grade than his for his own enjoyment.

At least, that's what he told himself.

Ray and Michael returned, bleary-eyed and weary from the previous night's adventure, to Weaver Hall. Although it was almost 8: 15 in the morning (hardly any students mulling about the campus this early, even for class) the morning sun was obscured by a large rain cloud. Ray elicited a small yawn as he walked the marble steps that he and Draverhaven had descened before. He wondered whether or not if that Venkman character was really all right.

"You're worried about Venkman, aren't you?" Draverhaven said.

"Just thinking if he came around, you know?" Ray replied as the of them entered a classroom marked **Parapsychology 101--Instructor: Erich Kurt**.

"I thought our guy was Andrews?" remarked Ray, pointing at the sign as they walked inside. Draverhaven shrugged, suggesting it was probably a temporary instructor.

They were not the first ones there, despite the fact that it was still fairly early (class did not start for another ten minutes). Seated in a chair in the back was a tall, brown-haired young man. Ray looked in disbelief at the young man sitting there, with his legs upon his desk and his arms folded.

Coupled with the hangover to end all hangovers and a terrific headache, Peter Venkman cut a rather surly sight as he waited for class to start. Egon had woken him up only ten minutes earlier to remind him that he did have a class to attend, and that he did have a rather low grade in Parapsychology at the moment. Spengs really knew how to hurt a guy.

He looked up from these thoughts to see two new faces in the classroom. One of them looked like a human Big Bird; the other at least looked remotely normal. Of course, hanging out with Egon these past three years has sort of warped his perceptions of what normal meant nowadays. With a fluid movement worthy of Astaire or Kelley, Peter lept from his desk and landed feet first in front of the his classmates.

"Howdy", he said, slurring his speech somewhat. "You guys new here?"

"Yeah", said Ray scratching the back of his head. "I'm Ray Stantz and this is my roommate Michael Draverhaven."

"Hello", Draverhaven drawled, shaking Peter's hand.

"Great to meet ya", replied Peter. "Pete Venkman's the name! Scourge of Weaver Hall's the game!"

"Scourge?" Ray asked.

"At least that's what he wants to think", said a fourth voice in the room. This was one had a thick European accent. Turning around, the three classmates noticed a squat, balding, older man. He had a blonde mustache and watery eyes. Every time he walked, they noticed, he sort of waddled like a penguin. Approaching the front of the room, he placed his briefcase down upon the wooden desk, where a projector was set up. As soon as this man entered the room, more students began tapering inside, the final count being somewhere around twenty students. When everyone was seated, the man faced the classroom with a cool personality, his arms behind his back.

"_Kategorie des gutenmorgens_. Good morning class", the man said. "I am your substitute professor for this semester, Kurt." Peter raised his hand.

"Yes?"

"What happened to Professor Thompson?" he asked.

"The kind Professor Thompson retired over the summer, apparently having had enough of...certain faculties", Kurt responded. "His replacement, Andrews. Ah well, _was auch immer ist, seien sie_." He elicited a laugh. "He should be back after December."

"That's...comforting", Peter said.

"Now that we have had our introductions out of the way, _meine Kursteilnehmer_, I shall begin by asking how many of you intend on staying in the class past the new year?" There a low murmur in the classroom. Kurt smiled and folded his arms.

Draverhaven was the first to raise his hand, not surprising Ray, who was sitting next to him. He soon followed him. He didn't quite know why, but he suddenly felt that this class was more than an easy 'A', recalling the lie he had told Draverhaven. He noticed Peter was also raising his hand, albeit feebly.

"You too, Mr. Venkman?" Kurt asked.

"To be honest", Peter said, "I'm just here for all the cute girls." He was eyeing a relatively attractive blonde in the bottom row. Kurt laughed.

"_Mein Wort_, I was told by the Dean how much of a joker you were. I underestimated his opinon of you. _Aber i-digress_. I assume those that I will not be seeing after this semester is over know what parapsychology is. Anyone?"

Ray looked over at Michael, who was in the process of answering when he heard the door open. Kurt and the rest of the class turned their attentions towards the direction of the door, where a young man was leaning against it.

"Parapsychology is the study of anything that cannot or will not be explained by conventional scientific methods", the young man said. Kurt looked at him for a moment.

"Err, that's right", said he. "Are you a student of mine?"

"Yes I am sir", said the young man. "I'm just a little late. Had to talk to the dean."

"Quite all right", Kurt replied. "Could I have your name please?"

"Jackson", the young man said. "Scott Jackson." At the sound of the name, Peter almost fell out his chair. Kurt and Scott looked over in Peter's direction.

"Sorry about that", Peter said as the classroom erupted in laughter. "Slipped."

"That's sort of the point, Captain Obvious", Scott said with a sneer. He eyed Peter with venom as he took a seat in the far left hand corner.

"Asshole", Peter muttered underneath his breath as he himself got back into his desk. Ray leaned over in Peter's ear.

"Who is that?"

"Scott Jackson", Peter said. "Dean Yeager's lapdog of a nephew. A cunt who tried getting me and Egon thrown out of school a couple years ago."

"Egon? Egon Spengler? That's the doctor Michael and I met this morning!"

"Really? I forgot he was on night duty. Woke up in there with the world's worst headache. I didn't even drink that much at Benny's. You know what's funny?"

"What?" Ray asked nervously.

"He said that I'd bumped my head getting into my car, but I remember being at the dorms when I was knocked out."

"Yeah, there's a reason behind that", Ray said.

"You there!" Kurt said, pointing towards Ray.

"Yes?"

"Quickly tell me what is the first way to identify a malevolent entity as being a poltergeist!"

Ray felt a lump grow in his throat as he tried to remember what he had learned over the summer. "The only known recorded evidence of malevolent poltergeist activity was five years ago, sir", he said. "The report stated that a butcher's knife levitated three feet from the ground before dropping and landing square upon the table where three witnesses confirmed it as such."

"_Wundervoll_! Excellent", Kurt said excited. "Poltergeists have been known to interact with humans on occasion, such as the famous case of the Bell Witch from 1817..."

"Or Gef the Talking Mongoose", Draverhaven said, finally putting in some of his knowledge.

"Correct. However, while accounts of violence have been few and far between, poltergeists themselves are thought to be a type of uncontrolled psychokinesis generated by a living human mind, or the host agent as we would call it."

Kurt looked around and noticed that he had the class's full, undivided attention. This was working better than he thought it would.

"But sir", Draverhaven quipped without raising his hand. "How can a poltergeist be the product of a human mind?"

"Haven't you been paying attention?" Scott Jackson said without looking at Draverhaven. "The human mind can be capable of anything. If you read the textbook, you would've known that the effect is the outward manifestation of human psychological trauma!"

"Hey, Jacky-boy", drawled Peter. "Quit sucking all the air out of the room, will ya?"

The class laughed, but Kurt was not amused. "QUIET!" he shouted. The whole room fell silent. Composing himself, Kurt smiled.

"My apologies for raising my voice", he said. "I cannot stand disruption, but I appreciate the ferocity upon which you all apply yourselves in this overlooked subject. For that, I am going to suggest a project."

"Goddamn it", Peter groaned.

"Oh yes, Mr. Venkman. I want you all to partner up in groups of two or three and research upon the poltergeist effect." More moaning from the class. Ray noticed that only he and Draverhaven were the only ones interested in the idea of the project.

"This project will be due by next Monday, meaning you have one week to finish it. Godspeed students."

After class, Peter was still groaning about the work.

"Ain't this about a bitch", he said. He was walking alongside Ray and Draverhaven. "First week of school and the ass springs a project on us! And then that little cuntface Jackson's back..."

Ray disagreed about the project. "I think it's pretty cool", said he. "I mean, think about it: we can actually prove or disprove the existence of poltergeists! Think of the possibilties!"

Shaking his head, Peter said, "I'd rather think about the Monday special at Benny's. God knows I need one. I'll catch you guys later when you think of something for us to work on."

"You mean as partners?" Ray asked.

"Yeah, whatever", Peter said. "Partners is all right with me. There's a guy I know that might be able to help us out."

"Who?" Draverhaven asked.

"The guy I was just talking about. Spengler. He knows a lot of paranormal stuff and equations that'd make your hair turn white."

"I'll bet", Draverhaven said. As Peter left, Ray turned over to Draverhaven. He noted that the man had a look of thought in his eyes.

"Well", Ray said breaking the silence, "I guess we hit the library first. Dig up some stuff on the history of..."

"New York's filled with ghost stories", interjected Draverhaven, as the two of them continued their walk back to Johnson Hall. "Going all the way back to the Dutch settlers slaughtering the Wapanog tribes that inhabited this area. You also have other famous massacres throughout history, as well as the numerous, unaccounted for deaths during the American Revolution..."

Ray looked at Draverhaven. "Has anybody ever told you you're a weird guy Mike?"

"Several times", Draverhaven said, grinning.

Scott Jackson watched as Venkman left his two new monkeys. He had been the only one to stay behind when class let out, most likely because he wasn't supposed to even be at the school. He had, as of January 1974, dropped out of Columbia in favor of more prestigious academic pursuits. He had supposedly gone on to Yale, where he would be a legitimate scientist. His uncle, Solomon Yeager, the Dean of the college, had promised him a job when he graduated.

But that was on the surface. The lie he wanted everyone to know.

Scott had wanted to leave after the incident with Venkman left Scott's reputation scarred. No longer was he the feared voice of the people to the Dean, but rather a joke. He knew what everyone had said behind his back:

"Look, it's Yeager's little doggie!"

"Hey puppet! Bust anybody lately?"

"Good-boy! Go run to Uncle Solomon!"

He couldn't take it anymore than his uncle could. Scott made the choice to leave the campus, start off new. But the burning memories of seeing Venkman's smug look would haunt his dreams for the next two years. Secretly, he had dropped out of Harvard the previous February, coming back to Columbia under falsified papers, cleverly made using connections the Dean had introduced him to years before. His uncle didn't even know he was back here. The lie about why he was late worked. He had read that Kurt wouldn't question any member of the Dean's family should they "suddenly" arrive on campus. And here was, once again back at the school. But he was not the same man he had been when he left.

Yale's upperclass provided him with some...vital knowledge, more than he could have ever learned at Columbia. The Black Arts of the supernatural particularly interested Scott. He soon found others who shared his interests, and immediatley fell in with a paranormal fraternity known as the Brotherhood of the Morningstar. Though, their activities were rather...mundane when compared to the usual drunken antics of the other Greek-themed frat houses. The Brotherhood wasn't even an officially recognized house. The past two years had been a rather experience for him.

"And there you are", he said, seeing Venkman fall in with the other members of the Tri Kuppa Bru fraternity. He hated the lot of them, but Venkman especially. He shared equal venom for Spengler, but that was mild when compared with Venkman. He wanted to see Venkman in jail more than seeing him expelled. Where was the satisfaction in that? Sure his academic career would be ruined, but to see him become some dumb bastards "girlfriend" comforted Scott somewhat.

"You like ghost stories, eh Venkie?", Scott said, moving towards the dorms. "Have I got one helluva tale for you."


End file.
